


Gravehal's Emissary

by BorosPaladin



Series: Nova Alabastra [9]
Category: Kingdoms of Amalur
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-18
Updated: 2015-02-18
Packaged: 2018-03-13 14:10:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3384602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BorosPaladin/pseuds/BorosPaladin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>High King Cydan is paid a visit from the Fateless One. Well, a few steps removed. Business is business.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gravehal's Emissary

“So, the Lord of Gravehal Keep sends their regards at long last?”

The Dokkalfar gave a deep bow. “Indeed, High King Cydan.”

Cydan scoffed. “Twice-born, Siegebreaker, Kingslayer, of Sorrows, Sir Sagrell, Truesworn … and they decided they need yet another title?”

“As usual, my lord, it was granted by others. In this case, one Padrig Dower, the architect who rebuilt the keep.”

Cydan scoffed again. “Let me guess, a gnome?”

She smiled. “Of course. Who else?”

“They’re the worst of you mortals, always tinkering things. Wouldn’t surprise me if their tinkering somehow caused Gadflow’s madness.”

“Your Lordship, discussion of the gnomes’ unseemly experiments is not the purpose of my visit.”

“Oh? And what is the purpose of your visit, pray tell?”

“To formalize our relationship. Certain parties find our activities suspicious.”

“Do you honestly mean to say that the Lord of Gravehal Keep is behind these seasteel shipments?”

“I do, Your Lordship. And of course, my lord requires no payment, merely an expression of gratitude – “

“Of course they want money. How much do I owe them?”

She was puzzled at the interruption. “Nothing, Your Lordship. Even if my lord desired payment, they are already far richer than the lords of Rathir could ever wish to be.”

“Is that so? Well, you’ll have to forgive my pessimism in doubting that their riches will last forever.”

“Of course not, and my lord is well aware of that. In fact, they desire your help in ensuring Gravehal’s long-term survival.”

“Interesting. And how can Bhaile serve Gravehal?”

“Simple: We both have deep interests in recovery of scrap materials. Our seasteel, your Prismere. Salvage and mining go hand in hand, and, well, someone has to be an economic challenger to Motus Mining. My lord already owns a small mining company in the Hollowlands and would gladly bring this into the pooled resources. You truly have nothing to lose and much to gain.”

“So the Lord of Gravehal Keep wants to form a mining and salvage company jointly owned by the High King of the Winter Fae and themself to challenge the gnomes? I like this plan. Removing useful things from the earth with respect for it. But that hardly does much to assuage those wondering where all this seasteel is coming from.”

“That, Your Lordship, is my personal favorite point. The seasteel ceases to be donations and starts to be your share of the profits from the company’s activities in Gallows’ End.”

“And so does your lord desire Prismere?”

“That has been discussed. Prismere weaponry would certainly make a formidable fleet for defending Gallows End and its lord’s interests across the Frostbreak Sea.”

“Yes, it would. No doubt Rathir is already opposed to this plan.”

“Publicly, yes, they have expressed much concern over the idea of a fleet reminiscent of the Tuatha armies. More privately, they have expressed interest in opposing a gnomish hegemony on mining across the Faelands.”

“Hmpf. ‘Faelands’. What strange distinctions you mortals have. Still, even the Tuatha were not part of this land and must pass away from it. And of course, I am eager to speed the gnomes’ passing.”

“You do not need to act upon this immediately, Your Lordship. Such a project – “

“Quiet, girl. I am not finished.”

His icy tone froze her mid-sentence, and he stood up from his slouched position on the throne. He walked steadily to the balcony behind his seat where the path to the inner throne room once stood, though she did not miss the precision behind his calm demeanor.

“ _Such a project_ must proceed with all possible haste, and I would be happy to allow such a company limited passage across Alabastra and permit it to do some mining work, especially as they use materials from the Tuatha’s mortal structures and pay for these rights in seasteel and other materials. I may even request that some of my enchanters work to create tools that would heal the land rather than destroying it to remove the Prismere. But this is a mortal endeavor, and I will not put my Court at its mercy in any way. I am grateful for the offer, but Bhaile must stand alone.”

She hesitated a moment after he finished. “As you – ”

“Our business is concluded, Myfa. I’m tired of these formalities.” He sagged slightly, placing his hands on the railing for support.

“Of course … Cydan.” She walked over to the balcony, leaning on the railing next to him.

“How have they been, the great death-bringer?”

“Life on a throne ill-suits them. They’re often away from it for days or weeks at a time. Sometimes they leave great lists of instructions for me, and other times they simply don’t.”

“With how they stopped the Tuatha, it’s a wonder that you mortals still don’t understand Winter.”

“How so?”

“Oh, it’s simple. The Tuatha were an oversize plague, gradually eating away and tearing down everything you mortals had done in Klurikon. They weren’t stopped by your noble strategies and tactics, but by that one’s sheer slaughter. Think back to their titles: Siegebreaker, Kingslayer, of Sorrows. Their keep is named for a tomb and even their most honorable titles, Sir Sagrell and Truesworn, were obtained by brutality, by killing the right thing at the right time. Without death, nothing lives. And yet nothing is so hated as death.”

“I suppose you’re right. I don’t know how else one gets honorable titles, though. It’s not like ambassadors are loved, and even inherited kingships are just that your mother or your mother’s mother killed the right villain at the right time. Or that your father married the right woman.”

“Oleyn.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Oleyn. Lady Oleyn, the Cureseeker. Gained her name by curing a disease in a village, supposedly also by threatening the mighty Maid of Windemere but I doubt that part.”

“Well, that’s one.”

“Aye. Perhaps the only one.”

“And what do you think? Will Winter regain its strength, perhaps enough for another plague? Or will Winter itself fade away?”

Cydan shook his head. “I don’t know how, but I won’t let that happen. Winter must kill rather than be killed. That will be hard, though, given the way the mortals hawk over us.”

He stepped away from the ledge. “I trust you will show yourself out.”

A Shadowstep, and he was gone. Myfa was sure to note the dents Cydan’s grip had left on the sturdy, if thin, seasteel railing.


End file.
